fit for queens | jacinta + colt

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

J A C I N T A S A L A Z A R ;

She doesn't know how long she's been staring at herself, squinting into the mirror of her dressing room. It isn't an act of vanity, but rather confusion and disbelief at herself. One day has passed since she stabbed her spear through Cynthia's skull, marking her as the Seventy-Seventh Victor. It's like she's walking in a dreamland, on feathery clouds that will collapse beneath her feet at any moment.

Her prep team has covered her face in a flawless mask of makeup — deep mauve lips, muted blush, glittering cheekbones and sweeping dark eyelashes. Jacinta's hair is long and falls down her back in seemingly effortless curls; she wonders exactly how long it took her prep team to style it to appear so glossy, when just a day ago, it was disheveled and dry with blood.

Her stylist hasn't come in yet, so she's still just standing there in a simple white gown, arms crossed tightly over her chest. They say his name is Colt Royale, and that he replaced her previous stylist — not that she remembers their name, though. "He's a big shot designer," claimed one of the women on her prep team. "I hear he became the District Seven stylist just for you."

"Why wouldn't he, after all?" said another. "It's quite beneficial to base a career off of a Victor." She nearly rolled her eyes when they said so, but she kept her attitude in check; besides, it is something she should accustom herself to. She is a Victor now, not a tribute, not just a girl from Seven — a Victor, a symbol of money and fame.

As she draws in a deep breath and waits for Colt, watching the door in the reflection of the mirror, she wonders if he sees her exactly the same way as the rest of them do. She supposes that she shouldn't expect anything more.

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

COLT
r  o  y  a  l  e

High society.

He was raised among champagne secrets and he knew that the most glamorous of addictions was money, and everyone was desperate for their next fix, but they weren’t ever willing to do the work. Or maybe they were, and a lack of privilige one can only obtain by birthright prevented their financial security.

But Jacinta.

Born into money, willing to pave her own path, make her own wealth. She was not a sad little lamb, as her District status prelabelled her. Human, yes, but no damsel. Colt had known from the beginning, latching arms with the girl from 10, not looking over her shoulder when the first of those two boys was killed. A human, yes. But a fighter. A winner.

A victor.

He met her eyes, finger trailing themselves down the length of her long, dark hair as he circled her and came to a stop in front of her.

“My name is Colt. And I’m going to make sure they never forget you.” To be honest, he wasn’t sure if remembrance was high on her list of priorities, but it would happen regardless. She was Jacinta Salazar, first of her name, first of her District. A symbol of hope and a fierce reminder of the rewards of hard work. Colt’s job was to make sure she was remembered for good things.

“Or the fact that you are a survivor.”

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

J A C I N T A S A L A Z A R ;

Jacinta doesn't turn around when he walks into the room. She remains staring into the mirror, watching him walk toward her and trail his finger along a curly lock of her hair. He looks different from most of the other members of the upper class in the Capitol — more classically handsome and sleek rather than unnaturally beautiful and over the top. In the reflection of the mirror, their eyes meet, and Jacinta feels a little jolt of heat flash through her face. She hadn't meant to hold his gaze like that, and she breaks away as soon as a bit of pink threatens to peek through her foundation.

He stops in front of her and says with a smooth voice, "My name is Colt. And I'm going to make sure they never forget you." She expected a polite introduction, but not this, not a declaration such as that. "Or the fact that you are a survivor." A survivor — a survivor, not a victor. Now that's new, that's something she has not heard yet. No one in the Capitol seems to greatly acknowledge the weight of all those memories and how they are already tearing into her mind, replaying over and over again. Slitting Atlas's throat, slashing Daniela's chest open, stabbing Cynthia in the eye. She used to be able to walk away like she didn't care, but now she's not so sure.

"A survivor," she repeats. That is all she really feels like right now — a survivor, not a murderer and especially not a victor. But she doesn't share that thought with Colt. Instead, she says, after a pause in between, "I suppose so, yes." She uncrosses her arms and lets them hang at her side so she doesn't appear more hostile than she intends.

"I've already heard all about you," she says, her voice sounding a bit lower and more gravelly than normal. "I think you caused quite the stir when you finally gave in and became the stylist for District Seven female." And she would know — it's practically all anyone around her can talk about.

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

COLT
r  o  y  a  l  e

"He almost allowed a small smile to stretch across his features, because she already knew. Her fight was not over, and it never would be. But she hadn’t given up. Didn’t seem to have, at least, and he admired it.

She made quick work of proving to him that he had made the right decision in coming here.

Colt’s eyes glanced over at his assistant, who smiled proudly.

“So my reputation precedes me,” he said simply, nodding to the black bag hanging on a coat rack in the back of the room, “I guess we have that in common.”

His assistant held the bag up for him to unzip. He allowed a single moment of dramatic pause before revealing the dress to Jacinta. Colt would have been lying if he said he hadn’t gone out: full length, a deep forest green, form-fitting. The back was cut low, covered in the same lace as her sleeves. He’d designed the lace himself: delicate swirls crafting flowers and vines and stag deer with their proud antlers. A woman’s dress. A warrior’s armor came in many shapes and forms, and Jacinta Salazar had a body most would have killed for. He had no plans of hiding that from the world.

She wasn’t damsel, and tonight, she would make it clear, or he would make it clear for her.

“I design for powerful people. That’s why I’m here.” His candor was the best that’s he could do.

“For you.”

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

J A C I N T A S A L A Z A R ;

Colt Royale smiles at her and she's not sure if he's being proud or smug. (Though she doesn't think she really cares.)

"So my reputation precedes me," he replies. Jacinta studies his face as he speaks, his tan skin, his short and neatly trimmed beard, his expressive dark eyes, his sleek black hair. It is difficult not to let her eyes wander — though she would never consciously allow that thought to stick in her mind. "I guess we have that in common."

But he is a designer, a man who built a name for himself through sheer determination and willpower. Even if he is from a wealthy background, he still had to work for at least some of his fame and money. Jacinta never did; she was born and raised an heiress and now she is famous and infinitely wealthy for killing people. Nothing she has ever done should have earned her these things, but here she is, with more money than she knows what to do with and more fame than she could have ever dreamed up.

Colt saunters over to the corner of the room, where a black bag hangs on a coathanger. He unzips it and reveals the dress for Jacinta to see — it is extravagant and green and lacy and so sheer. She is sure she has a dress like it at home, that same deep Salazar green (though her parents would never allow her to wear something that revealing).

"I design for powerful people. That’s why I’m here," Colt tells her. "For you," he continues, and his words seem so . . . heavy. She doesn't know any other word to describe it.

Jacinta has never considered herself powerful before, not since she was ten years old and completely naive, enveloped in pride for her family's golden name. Colt's words hang oddly in the air, but they don't sound untrue. She supposes he is right; victors do have a hold over the Capitol, whether they like it or not.

But she doesn't know what to say — she is already a bit flustered by such an influential figure like Colt, and she still hasn't recovered from the Arena. Instead of being smooth and poised as she should be, she clears her throat after a pause and says, "Ah, thank you. So, are you going to turn around while I change, leave the room, or . . . ?" She blushes such a bright scarlet that she is sure it shows through her makeup.

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

COLT
r  o  y  a  l  e

This time, Colt could not stop himself from smirking.

Shy girl.

She would surely have to overcome that in the events to come.

He handed the dress back over to Babe.

“Zip her up,” he said, rubbing his hands together and walking back toward the exit. He stopped outside the door, arms crossed over his chest and the scent of baked goose and boiled carrots wafting through the air. They called meals like those extravagant- Colt called them disgusting.

He waited to hear Babe’s voice before pushing the door open. One look. One look and he could see how perfectly the dress fit her, how the emerald embellishments and the golden eyeliner, the sleeves simply made sense on her.

He pulled out a small flask and winked toward her. “Really outdid myself, huh?”